


The Sedge is Wither'd From the Lake

by copperfire



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Athos is very angsty, F/M, Gen, Jossed, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8755351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperfire/pseuds/copperfire
Summary: Athos attempts to slip away in the aftermath of seeing his wife, who is not as dead as he had thought. Aramis and Porthos aren't about to let him get away with that. Written after 1x07: A Rebellious Woman, and then swiftly jossed.Originally posted in 2014 here: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=291078#cmt291078





	

**Author's Note:**

> I also have anonymous BBC Musketeers fic to own up to!
> 
> Title is cribbed from 'La Belle Dame san Merci' which feels kind of like a cheat, but also incredibly appropriate. 
> 
> This was written directly after watching A Rebellious Woman, and was soon proven to be non-canonical (though, really, I still feel like Porthos and Aramis maybe should have asked about the mysterious woman at the trial? Anyway).
> 
> Warnings for angst-laden Athos POV, and run-on sentences.

"Who was she?"

Athos doesn't look up from the table; he doesn't need to. He knows who is standing over him, knows it as he knew that they would follow him, knows it the same way he knew that no matter what wretched drinking establishment he dragged himself to that they would find him. He hadn't made it easy for them, slipping out as soon as they'd stabled their horses, leaving before the smoke from the fire had dissipated from their clothes. And then he'd chosen his path through the city at random, ending up in this tavern - if it could be complimented with such a name - when he had not wanted to look upon other people any more. He knows that they would follow him, find him, ask him, and he doesn't know if he hates or loves them for it.

He doesn't answer, doesn't give any sign of responding, and instead looks deep into the dark glass of the bottle he holds. His hands have given the smooth vessel warmth in the time he has been holding it; the wine inside is thin, sharp, but it dulls him as he wants it to. That's all he wants. A dullness to take off the jagged edges of the past, a curtain that will muffle the sound of her voice, a screen that will hide her from him... hide the woman he had loved and killed, and who now walked in his life again.

A moment longer, and the seat beside him and the seat across the table are scraping across the ground, two bodies settling into them with the quiet determination of people who will wait for hours. Athos still doesn't look up, for doesn't wish to acknowledge these two bastions of the new life he has shaped for himself from the tattered remnants of the old one. He doesn't want to bring the fractured pieces of himself together, doesn't want to introduce old to new. It had been bad enough when they had had to return to his house, where memories had settled in every corner, but Aramis had been occupied with Porthos' wound, and Porthos with the odious man they had been escorting, and it had been only d'Artagnan who had come back to pull him from the flames.

It was somehow easier with d'Artagnan, with the bright-eyed boy who looked at him with an awe that he did not deserve. He could live with him having seen him at his worst, having heard the confession his treacherous lips had given voice to before his smoke-addled brain had brought them back under his usually strict control.

d'Artagnan hadn't dragged him from a hundred bars without asking questions, hadn't sewn up wounds received when he hadn't cared if he lived, hadn't brazenly lied to Treville about his reasons for his absence. Oh, Athos loved the boy as he thought he could love only two others who lived, but that bond was yet new, untempered, bright as fresh-forged steel. What he had with Aramis and Porthos went deeper, darker, it trod through more despair and gleamed less brightly, but was tempered strong and unbreakable.

And it was that that made him raise his gaze. It was Porthos' eyes that he met, for it was he who had taken the seat across the table from him, while Aramis is sat beside him. Neither of them repeat the question, and the silence stretches, lengthens, spun sugar in the noisy tavern, and then he speaks.

"My wife."

He doesn't need to look at Aramis to know he is frowning, confused, for he can see the same expression in Porthos. He doesn't say anything further, dropping his eyes back down to his drink, and it is Aramis who next breaks the silence.

"She is not dead, then."

He doesn't remember which drunken night it was he told them at least part of the story. The least painful parts, the brightest ones, the parts that said his wife had died, and didn't mention his brother, or that he had killed her, had watched her hang - but had apparently not watched her die.

"No."

There is quiet amongst their trio again, though the buzz of the crowd around them does not dim.

"What she does is not your fault." Aramis, again, voice certain, full of a kindness that he does not deserve - he deserves censure and blame, anger, rage, for his wife is not dead and she must work for the Cardinal, and today she had almost destroyed everything they were working for.

"Isn't it? I failed to kill her five years ago. Failed, and how can I blame her for her anger?" He would be angry. He had been angry five years ago, with his brother dead and his wife alive, telling him it was what needed to be done. He had still been angry as he'd ridden away, but then his anger had been riven with grief, for he had truly loved - still truly loved - that quick, bright woman.

"Did she burn down your house?"

Athos raises his gaze then, surprised, to look at Porthos, who looks as though he is sorting through a great many things in his head, only half of which have any relation to the other. "How...?"

"d'Artagnan," Porthos says.

"Did you not think we wouldn't ask, when he took off in the middle of the night, and then when you turned up again in the morning you both smelt of smoke?" Aramis quirks a fleeting smile. "He needs more practice in withstanding questioning."

"How dare - " But the flash of anger deflates from him faster than it comes, and he shakes his head. He cannot blame them, and he respects that they did not ask him, and have not brought the matter up in the intervening time. "I think it was," he answers instead. "I thought - a dream, but... yes. It was her. I do not know how she survived, but... here she is."

And now that he has begun talking, he does not seem to be able to stop, and the tale pours out of him in painful words and broken phrases, of the life they had had, of his brother - younger, brighter, better - and of her, his wife. Of his running to the Musketeers looking for death, and his finding of something else.

Porthos and Aramis say nothing, but listen as words tumble from him as harsh, shattered fragments of sound, and then when the sorry story is done, and he stutters to a halt, looking at the table again, for he cannot meet their eyes, not when they know what he has done, who he is -

Aramis reaches out and captures one of his hands. He hadn't realised that they were cold before. "Athos," he says, "We are here. We are not leaving. You don't have to deal with this alone."

He looks to Porthos, who is nodding, to see steadfast agreement in his warm eyes. "We will find out what she is doing," he says, promising help. "But tomorrow. Now, we shall take you home."

And they do, Porthos solid on one side, Aramis warm on the other, walking him through streets that do not seem quite so dark, though the moon hides behind clouds and there is rain in the air. Athos doesn't speak again, doesn't know how to after those broken words, and Aramis and Porthos pick up a banter that is familiar to them as breathing, light and bright in the darkness. He is grateful for it, that they do not ask further questions, or pry further, and that, when they deliver him to his garret, they do not leave.

Porthos deposits him on the bed, and with gentle fingers helps rid him of shoes and armour. Athos tries to help, but his fingers are made clumsy by drink, and Porthos eventually bats his hands away from their pathetic attempts at buckles and laces. Aramis tends to the fire, scraping out cold ashes and rebuilding the comforting glow anew, tutting when he realises the state that Athos' chimney is in. As Athos draws his covers around him, he is struck by the fear that they might go, leaving him to the darkness and the flames, and he opens his mouth, saying only "Will you - " before he stops, for he cannot bare himself that much. Somehow, after all that he has said this evening, that seems the hardest thing to say, and so he cuts himself off.

They look at him, then at each other, then back to him with a terrible fondness.

"You can't possibly throw us out," Aramis says, "It is pouring out there now, and I don't fancy getting soaked."

"Nope," Porthos agrees. "You're stuck with us tonight. That's what you get when you find disagreeable little hovels to drink in."

Gratitude swells in Athos, but he doesn't say anything, knowing that they will understand - they often need no words between them, the three inseparables, tighter together than woven threads - and as they take off boots and bicker quietly about who shall sleep closer to the fire, he thinks that he does not deserve these friends. These friends who will say nothing of this in the morning unless he does, who will ask no further questions unless he speaks, and yet who will walk with him to whatever gates of Hell he approaches.

He slips into sleep to their quiet voices, and sleeps better than he deserves, to wake when the sun rides high in the sky, finding that Porthos and Aramis had solved their debate by laying themselves down almost on top of each other. He does not wake them, instead letting them sleep, and as the sun gilds their skin, he watches them, as they will watch over him, even when he does not ask it of them.

**Author's Note:**

> The original prompt was: "Ok, so in the ep Porthos just kind of waved the issue of Milady away because they had more important things to deal with. But after? Surely after he'd press, as would Aramis.
> 
> Please can I have the missing scene/coda to this ep? Angst, hurt/comfort, cuddles, self-loathing, anything, just how you think they find out/react. Please & thank you."
> 
> Prompt and original fill can be found here: http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=291078#cmt291078


End file.
